Package Deal Read Free

tan—in contrast to herself, who resembled something dragged from the bottom of a bag lady’s shopping cart. Life just wasn’t fair.
    Now and then Kelly had met men she instinctively knew kicked dogs and delighted in intimidating women. For whatever it was worth, she sensed this guy was different. Nothing shallow or slick, or macho about him—not that showed anyway—and that scared her. Even scarier, she caught herself peering over her shoulder at his backside, thinking nice butt . A sure sign of trouble.
    You’re losing it, girl.
    She gave her bag an exaggerated yank and staggered forward, legs bent at the knees by its weight. His expression, friendly and inviting, had reinforced her belief that the safest thing to keep between them was space. She’d spent a lot of lonely nights since her divorce and hadn’t looked twice at a guy in five years, but the last few months…and her tearful moment on the plane…well, her growing vulnerability troubled her.
    Pride riding high, she finally spotted the rental car counter. Half walking, half shuffling, she kept her eyes on the red and white Budget Rent-A-Car sign, while praying for deliverance and swearing the stupid suitcase gained another pound with each inch of progress she made.
    At the counter, she found her vehicle choices limited because of the late hour. There were two vehicles left, a Mitsubishi sports model, and a Chevy Impala. She owned an old Toyota, which got her where she wanted to go, though she wouldn’t brag about it.   For fun, she rented the Mitsubishi.
    The clerk winked. “That’s a fast car.”
    “I think I can handle it.” She envisioned herself hurtling along the ocean road at mind-boggling speed, dodging gray haired ladies who struggled to see over the wheels of their ancient, rusting Oldsmobiles. She broke into a smile, amused by the picture in her head.
    The average age of Daytona’s licensed drivers was near sixty, and the resulting speed of traffic on a fast day might reach thirty-five miles per hour. Although known to college students across the country for being a fast paced, party town, in reality, Daytona Beach was a sleepy laid back beach town with virtually no super highways or traffic, and with less hubbub than the average Midwest farm town, except, of course, during Spring Break and Bike Week, when all the locals evacuated.
    She picked up a street map and, after locating the car in an adjacent lot, found her way to A1A, the beach highway. She drove north to Ormond Beach and to her room reserved at The Glades, a cluster of small, beachfront cottages with kitchenettes. A1A wound north and south along the Florida coast, littered by an endless string of condos, motels, and hotels. The strip was colorful by day, neon by night—a tourist haven for old and young alike.
    A glaring string of flashing lights guided her through Daytona’s hotel district. Her directions to The Glades were simple. Past the strip to Granada Boulevard, and then continue four miles further north. The Glades would be on the right. No turns. No hunting for street signs.
    She pulled into the motel just as the green fluorescent numbers on the car clock flipped over to one fifty-five a.m. After checking in, she located her assigned cottage and dragged her bag through the open doorway. The bag landed with a thud on the linoleum floor. She closed the door behind her, and slowly looked around, considering her temporary home. It wasn’t fancy, but since she would be in Daytona for ten days on her own dollar the price was right. Besides, a standard motel room wasn’t much bigger than a closet when compared to the cottage, which consisted of a small living room, a bedroom, a bathroom—furnishings circa 1960—and a boxy little kitchen with the bare essentials. A window air conditioner hummed on the far wall, and a chorus-line of invisible crickets sawed out a snappy welcome.
    She crossed to the picture window and pulled open the rubber-lined drapes, stirring the warm air